Strength

It was a several months after homecoming, and everything at Sky High had fallen back into place. Gwen and her band of criminals got what they deserved and were currently serving two life sentences in the Maxville State Prison, which meant the school was clear of threat and everyone could breathe safely knowing Royal Pain was locked away for good. Principle Powers took it upon herself to set up extra safety screening measures when it came to the school's admissions, yet she chose not to do anything about the Hero/Sidekick dichotomy besides switching Layla's track – the plant controller was furious for days and refused to go to class until Power's finally relinquished and put her back in hero-support. We had continued to bond as a friend group, and as much as Warren hated to admit it – the freshmen were growing on him. He glared less and began to talk more, chipping in his two cents into conversations here and there. It was nice to see him interacting and being wanted by those around him once again; support like friends were important to have during high school, and even if Warren had done it thus far without any connections, he himself admitted that they freshmen were sort of nice to have around.

After the events that had transpired during homecoming and several days before that, Warren and I had begun to see each other much more frequently. We hadn't admitted to any relationship status yet, but Magenta and Layla refused to quit insisting that it was completely clear we were dating and continued to badger us with little comments here and there. It wasn't exactly disturbing; the hotbox and I didn't deny anything and had grown used to the other girls antics by this point, instead focusing on each other and learning every single thing we could about each other in our spare time. It took me some time to allow myself to become physical with him – intimacy didn't come easily after years of abuse and it took several hours for him to calm me down after our first attempt. The flashbacks that accompanied any form of extensive physical contact were violent and unmerciful, causing panic attacks and crying fits until my body became accustomed to the idea that Warren was not going to hurt me. It took a fair bit of time, but the patience I encountered with the pyrokinetic was remarkable. Never did he cast me aside in anger or become frustrated; he merely talked me through the attacks and held me afterwards, assuring me that everything was going to be okay and that I was in complete safety. Over time, my reactions dulled and I was able to shove away the feelings of anxiety that came with extended periods of contact, which marked a huge progression in my recovery and a blossoming relationship.

The situation with my mother was also beginning to mend itself. I had received a phone call several days ago notifying me of my mother's release from the inpatient ward she had been spending time in, and after being put in contact with her discovered that she was living off of welfare in an apartment on the other side of town. At first I had been very reluctant to even speak to her, but found that I didn't have the ability to ignore her any longer and with the help of Maisa, managed to organize a meeting. The psychology sessions were planned and thankfully covered by our health insurance, and although I knew it would be a long journey, I was prepared to re-approach the situation that I had shoved away for so long. My mother was my mother, and I knew I needed to recognize that. With Warren's encouragement, I had managed to meet her for coffee yesterday and although we hadn't talked about much besides her stay in rehabilitation, it was the small beginning of a vast effort to repair our broken family. Speaking of repairing, I had been doing a lot of studying with Warren and with his help had raised my grade point average to a strong ninety. As it turned out Mad Science had been the culprit that was dragging my academics down, but with a little shove and a lot of extra hours the class began to get better. I had even approached Principle Powers about the Superhuman Medical Sciences program going on at the University of Maxville, which had a department specifically for supers and how they could contribute to the field. I was most pleased to find that I was eligible for the scholarship to the program, and found myself excited for my final year of school. For the first time in my life, I felt ready and in control. I had always had my decisions made for me and had assumed that I would become a deadbeat like my parents, but in reality I had so many more opportunities and without Sky High, it was likely that I never would have realized them.

I also had other knowledge that I owed thanks to Sky High for – Nurse Spex had explained to me the reasoning behind why I couldn't heal myself, and although it answered some questions I had, it didn't exactly make a difference anymore.

"I've met a wide variety of healers throughout my lifetime," She explained to me one afternoon during the lunch break. "And all of them were capable of performing their own abilities upon themselves. Your case is truly curious – but I do have an answer for you."

I made myself comfortable on one of the terrible plastic chairs as she pulled out a Tupperware container with some leftover pasta in it and began to eat.

"Your mutation seems to be unable to perform it's own beneficial healing techniques on its own cells, most likely because of the system that has been set in place by your body. Most healer's cells are capable of combining with each other after recognizing themselves to perform the same tasks they do on outside cells because they are fully mutated, but your body refuses to let it's own cells in because you have both normal human cells and mutant cells. The human cells refuse to accept the changes the mutant cells try to apply when you are hurt."

"My cells sound stupid," I interrupted, a frown marring my face. This caused Nurse Spex to let out a chuckle, but I huffed and continued.

"I'm serious!" I protested, playing with my tongue ring as a small knot of anxiety rose in my chest. "This is concerning – I don't want to reach thirty and spontaneously combust just because my cells are too idiotic to let themselves work on each other."

"There is a reason for this," Nurse Spex assured me, continuing with a smile. "And that is not it. Let me explain – first off, the cells that your body reproduces and the mutant cells that allow you to heal others are two difference kinds. With regular healers, all of their cells are mutated and their entire body works as one to heal itself constantly. All of their cells have mutated. Your cells have been split half and half – but they still recognize that they come from the same body. While your mutant cells can assist outsider human cells, your body cannot accept your mutant cells healing it's own human cells because they reject. The types of mutated cells – your healing cells, in your case – reject against your own. Against another student's mutant cells they can succeed, but because your mutant cells were born out of your human ones, they cannot work with each other. Changing the base cell would change the whole equation of your already altered DNA, and it could kill you – your body understands this and doesn't let your mutated cells make changes to your human cells."

"So I'm half and half?" I scrunched up my face, trying my best to understand. I felt like a fifth grader. "I have two types of cells and they can't touch each other?"

"You're still classified as a mutant," Nurse Spex tilted her head slightly, taking a large bite of her pasta. "There are both supers with half and half cells and ones with fully mutated cells. As long as the organism survives with this new type of DNA, you are classified as a mutant. Most have superhuman abilities, such as your friends here – or like you and me. But others might only change color, perhaps in their eyes or body hair."

"And it is a bit more complicated than claiming they are the same thing," She continued, talking in between bites. "We all evolved from a single celled organism into the dominant species of our kind. Every thousand millennia, evolution leaps forward, and mutants began to survive and thrive decades ago. We were discovered and studied, and although the cause for mutation was accidental at first and then genetic as we began to breed, the cells that mutate remain our own. In the developing phases of life, based off of the offspring's powers thanks to their genetics, the cells either exist as both human and mutant, or become fully mutated. Supers with powers effecting themselves and others mutate fully, like healers, whilst supers with powers only effecting others still keep their human cells because there needs to be a blockage to stop their powers from harming them. This is precisely the reason why someone like the Commander cannot hurt himself, or Mr. Peace cannot burn himself. The cells recognize the abilities, and develop to either protect or benefit the owner."

"So what about healers?" I frowned again, upset by the fact that I was the only one of my power type to be different – and not in a good way. "Why did my genes only split halfway?"

"Sometimes this is caused by trauma to the fetus," She explained, eyeing me sadly and reiterating what she had just said to clear up any confusion. "It isn't a frequent occurrence because your genes should be able to recognize your abilities early on, and from birth they should already be either fully mutated or split half and half between normal human cells and mutated cells. Those cells can work together, as you see in your classmates, but generally with powers that effect both the mutant and the outside world the cells should be completely mutated. Not half and half, like yours have done."

"So basically supers that are supposed to effect both themselves and the outside with their power should have fully mutated cells, and the supers that only effect the outside world should have half mutated cells. Which makes me a freak among freaks," I sighed, finally wrapping my head around everything. "Great."

"There are cases similar to yours," Nurse Spex admitted. "In my research I came across a few. Unfortunately most of these cases – like yours – were caused by damage to the child during the developmental stages in the embryo either by alcohol, stress, or poor care. I'm sorry, Eleanor."

This didn't come as a shock to me – my mother was always a stressed person by nature, so it was clear that she had most likely refused to take care of herself properly and become riddled with stress during her pregnancy with me. It was a sad realization, to hear that my mutation wasn't complete and I couldn't provide safety for myself because of my mother's lack of proper care, but at this point I had been through so much and had already become accustomed to not being able to heal myself that Nurse Spex's explanation didn't change much in my life besides providing logical scientific reasoning. Although I know had an explanation as to why a huge part of my power was technically missing, by definition, it changed very little. I was doing fine living on my own and succeeding in school, and continued developing my own goals and recovering at my own pace.

Currently, however, my alcohol recovery wasn't doing so well. I had been clean for a good month up until Magenta had thrown a party celebrating the end of the mid-term exams, and I had reassured myself that it was alright to indulge every once in awhile now that I understood moderation and had discovered new tools to help myself with my flashbacks (I had my psychologist to thank for that – the breathing techniques had stopped multiple panic attacks). Warren agreed, and much to my surprise – sacrificed himself to the liquor overlords as well. I hadn't seen him drunk before, but the pyrokinetic certainly could hold his drink better than I imagined. Amidst the sea of heroes and sidekicks – as it turned out, our gang had not only saved Sky High but also created a bond between the rest of the kids in the floating school – we sat on a black leather couch taking shot after shot.

"I didn't t-think you could hold your liquor hotbox," I slurred, slumping back into his side. Out of habit – thanks to our many movie nights on my couch watching my brand new television (I had found a set for three hundred dollars on sale) – he wrapped an arm around me and smiled lazily. "Y-you're good."

"Yeah?" He leaned his head back on the couch, shutting his eyes for a moment. "I'm good at other things too..."

"I know," My sultry smile was interrupted by another shot, and from there on out everything was fuzzy. I remembered Layla drinking with me for awhile, then Magenta ordering pizza for the whole house. There was a strong memory of Zack and I finishing a small bottle of tequila, and then Warren's familiar heat. I remembered taking the bus back to my apartment with a fairly large group of people, but other than that I couldn't remember much.

Of course, this all came to bite me on the ass the next morning when I woke to find myself back in my apartment with a major hangover. I couldn't even begin to glimpse around the complex before I stumbled to the toilet, still slightly inebriated and begging for my stomach to be gentle with me as it expelled the remains of what seemed to be half digested pizza. I retched again simply from the sight, and it took around twenty minutes for my stomach to calm down. Still feeling like shit, I used the walls to support myself and made my way back into the bedroom, grabbing the bucket on the way. I didn't even bother to look around with my eyes half closed and instead chose to slump back into bed, praying that my stomach would calm down by the time I woke up again. As per usual, it did no such thing, but when I woke again it was not because of nausea. There was a slight stirring beside me that my body didn't sit well with, and caused my eyes to open for the second time that day and be greeted with the sight of a shirtless Warren, bottom half covered by my dark purple sheets. He had awoken himself, and was now blinking groggily around the room until his eyes settled on me.

"Eleanor," He closed his eyes in relief. "Jesus Christ."

"Warren?" I croaked, shifting and realizing that I was naked as well, barely covered. "When did we – holy shit..."

Unfortunately, because of my incapability to open my eyes the moment I had gotten up, I hadn't bothered to look around my apartment and take into account that the whole place was completely and utterly trashed. So it was only now that I looked around and realized the chaos that we caused last night - there were clothes everywhere – all of my lingerie was scattered about as if I had performed a fashion show, and I vaguely spotted what seemed to be Warren's shirt hanging off of the side of the bedroom door. This hadn't been our first intimate encounter, but it was our first drunken escapade and I couldn't help but feel slightly uncertain. It was one thing to sleep together sober and make sure that we used protection, but it was another to have drunken sex and induce the possibility of pregnancy.

"Oh my god," I flopped my face back into the pillow, the light from the window reaching my eyes. "My head is going to explode."

"Elle," Warren muttered into the pillow, tone groggy. I could almost hear the wince in his voice. "Shh."

After some more quiet grumbling, we both lay in a partially unconscious and nauseous state for a good hour or so before Warren decided that he felt well enough to get up and shower. I was in such nausea that I couldn't even raise my head to watch his naked form rise out of the bed and walk towards the bathroom, and only managed to turn my head in the direction of the door opening ten minutes later when he was finished. He stepped out with a towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips and began to look around the apartment, disappearing out of my sight. I heard some dishes moving around as well as a low grunt, but he didn't say anything until several minutes later when he walked back into the room.

"I should probably let you know that there's pasta all over your kitchen," He leaned against the doorway of my room, rubbing his face with one hand and holding the towel up with the other. "And you're covered in hickeys."

"What?" I didn't even have the energy to care yet.

"Your neck," He clarified, pointing towards me. "It's covered in hickeys."

"That's kind of your fault," I grumbled, earning a chuckle out of him as I placed a palm on my forehead. "Not like this hasn't happened before."

"Yeah," Warren agreed, still grinning as his eyes shone. I found myself returning the gesture despite my wretched state at the mere sight of his wonderful smile. "There are also three condoms in the sink, so there's that."

"Three?" I perked up at the number – either someone else had engaged in sexual activities in my apartment or we had been intelligent drunks and remembered protection – and wondered why the hell they had been placed in the sink. "Why are they in the sink? Are you sure?"

"I have no idea – I already threw them out," He confirmed as I forced myself to not stare at his chest. "And it's even messier out there."

"I hope you used gloves," I huffed, lifting myself into a sitting position and covering my chest with the blanket, reminding myself that I needed to get on birth control sooner rather than later. Warren was courteous enough to hand me one of his shirts and my pajama pants before he ventured back into the bathroom to brush his teeth, waiting until I made my way out of the bedroom. He had bought doubles of any essentials he needed and dutifully placed them at my house – this included clothing, extra food and toiletries in case he stayed more than one night. These types of things comforted me; having an extra toothbrush or razor in my bathroom, seeing his clothing stacked in my drawer and his deodorant on my windowsill – all of these provided a reminder that I was never alone.

"Holy shit..." I stopped, clutching at my stomach as I stepped one foot outside of my bedroom and looked around at the state that my apartment was in. "What the hell happened?!"

There were beer bottles and pizza boxes scattered around everywhere, and my memory began to come back to me as I looked around at the various signs of other people who had inhabited my apartment for the night yesterday. The TV had been left on and there were several large liquor bottles scattered around in between the beers, but my kitchen was the worst mess of all. Despite the obvious signs of mixing drinks everywhere, pasta coated almost every surface of my white appliances. The large pot, which I assumed had been our way of making the delicious dinner, was tipped over on the stove and had hardened, making a mess on the floor and trailing down the stove as well. I gaped as I regarded the sauce splattered on my fridge and crept closer to inspect the damage done inside of my most important appliance. It wasn't as strange as I thought it would be; someone had made a sandwich and forgotten to eat it apparently; it was sitting neatly on a plate and the only thing missing out of the entire fridge was my coca-cola and pasta sauce. This was most likely the most unfortunate loss of the day; the whole pot of pasta had gone to waste and I could only assume that somewhere on my floor were articles of clothing soaked with uneaten pasta sauce. Cyclone's paintings that she had made for me had been knocked off of their spots, but had luckily suffered little damage and were sitting peacefully against the wall below where their nails lay.

"We all came back here, didn't we?" Warren scratched his head, taking a couple steps closer and frowning. "I remember everyone ordering pizza."

"I remember Larry powering up," I muttered, realizing that my couch had been shifted further away from the TV – this had been a direct result of Larry's strength after he turned into a rock, and I remembered a vague memory of him moving it. "And making pasta."

Slowly but surely, our memory was coming back to us, and we began to clean up the mess. Pizza boxes and an array of scattered garbage – it looked as though someone had been so excited about our mid-terms being over with that they had brought balloons – were placed into the garbage chute, and the empties were placed under the sink to be returned at the liquor store later on in the day. We took the time to pick up the clothing that was scattered on the ground and either place it in the laundry bin or back into drawers (I couldn't calm my blush as I put away my entire collection of lingerie) and move the couch back into it's proper place, as well as Cyclone's paintings. My circular mirror near the entrance was untouched, thankfully, but one of my bras was hanging off of it and I collected it with a final grumble before Warren and I began to scrape the pasta sauce off of the fridge.

"This is nuts," I shook my head, grimacing at the strange smell as we worked. "I've never been so drunk I decided to model my entire underwear collection."

"I didn't mind," Warren shot me a smirk. "The show was just for me."

"Was it?" I eyed him in partial relief, but uncertain as to whether or not his memory served him correctly. "You remember?"

"I remember everyone leaving before things got freaky," He admitted, dumping more dry sauce into the garbage bin beside us. "I remember liking it very much."

This time I didn't try to calm the deep flush that creeped its way up my cheeks, sparking a fire inside of me and causing me to grin. I had invested in my collection of undergarments several weeks ago after the homecoming incident, deciding that it was time to splurge on myself and take advantage of the money I had saved up thus far. A TV, a mirror, pots and pans, a toaster, a microwave, proper silverware, a fluffy bathrobe and several pairs of underwear had been purchased, slowly but surely coming together to begin to complete my home. And quite frankly, as long as I was showing off my last purchase – or purchases, rather – to Warren only, I had no qualms about it.

"What else do you remember?" I was keen to change the subject, as Warren's smirk had only grown when he had seen my red cheeks and I wanted to know what else his memory had recovered before my head exploded.

"Will making a sandwich," Warren grunted as he scraped a particularly sticky piece of sauce off of the side of the fridge. At least that answered my question about why there was an uneaten sandwich in my fridge. "The bathroom was a mess too, by the way – but I already cleaned that up."

"Thank you," I murmured, shooting him a smile and kissing his cheek before beginning to clean the floor. "I appreciate that."

We stayed silent – as per usual; Warren and I were two very quiet and passive people – as we finished scraping the sauce off of the rest of the surfaces in the kitchen area, and then continued to scrub them clean. Any remaining party cups were placed in the garbage, and whilst I began to clean the bedroom Warren took it upon himself to do the dishes. Even though he wasn't in the room with me, I found myself blushing madly once again as I picked up more lingerie found underneath discarded articles of clothing. I had never been a very outright and forward person, so to discover that I had paraded around my collection of intimate clothing was strange for me. It wasn't that I was regretful or something of the sort – just that it was fairly new territory being in a relationship and this was a new experience. Of course, coming with this new apparent drunken persona/alter ego that I somehow managed to pull out for Warren last night, was a twinge of embarrassment. I didn't want him to think badly of me or my previous habits before I had entered the relationship with him, and I sincerely hoped that he believed me when I had told him that he was the first person I had dated, as well as one of the first people I trusted in years.

I was forced shake my thoughts off as I spotted the pile of CD's that had fallen onto the floor, tangling themselves into Warren's pants after clearly being knocked over. I set on reorganizing them and putting them back in their place beside the amplifier that the pyrokinetic had given me, and found a sweater to keep me warm as I ventured back into the kitchen. Although the heating throughout this building was supreme, the nausea caused by the hangover was giving me tremors and shivers as well as some minor anxiousness.

"I should probably head to my appointment soon," I looked up at the clock and saw that it was one in the afternoon. I had been meeting with Maisa, my psychologist, every Sunday at two o'clock to help my PTSD. So far I had been seeing her for three months, which meant I was halfway done my court mandated therapy time and would be able to rid myself of these twice a month meetings soon enough. Warren had been extremely supportive of it, encouraging me to tell her everything and picking me up from the appointments when he could. I had discovered that Warren was just as adamant about spending time with me as I was with him – he took every chance he could to see me and never passed up an opportunity to take me out somewhere. Despite Cyclone's complaints that we didn't spend enough nights at her home, she was thrilled to know how well I was doing and overjoyed that her son had found someone on the same wavelength as him. I imagined it was hard for Terri to see her son going through such difficult times for so long – both internally and externally with his small level of social interactions – so it was understood how relieved she was to see him share a bond with another person, especially someone who understood how he had suffered and could empathize.

"I can pick you up," Warren offered, meeting my eyes as he slid on a shirt. "You wanna grab a table and some chairs today?"

"Sure," I smiled, thinking back to our first trip to IKEA. "Maybe a couple of other things."

We left the apartment together after dressings ourselves and cleaning up a bit, making sure to bring a bottle of water each to quell the sickness in our stomachs. Warren hadn't displayed many signs of a hangover besides the bags underneath his eyes, but he revealed to me on the bus to the subway station that he was, in fact, not a big drinker and that binge drinking like we had done last night affected him to a large extent. We parted ways with a final kiss as I headed towards the downtown area of the Maxville Metropolis and Warren headed home to wait until three o'clock. My meetings were rarely eventful or exciting; I considered them more like opportunities to dump and unload what had happened the previous week into a living, breathing person and watch them take notes. Maisa would give me advice on how to handle the flashbacks as well as give me a whole list of helpful strategies to combat PTSD and cope with what had happened to me. I had lived for so long trying to hide my secret from others that it was difficult for me to open up to a stranger at first, but Maisa grew on me and I became comfortable with her as well. This was another one of my progressions that I noted the most; my ability to become comfortable with those around me had increased tenfold and I was no longer feeling as self conscious about myself as I would have a month ago. This had all happened so fast and suddenly that I was surprised my reactions had progressed so far in a short period of time, but I felt that with someone like Warren by my side and people like Maisa and Layla it was going to be an easier road from here on out. Unfortunately, as soon as my session started, Maisa was telling me news that would force me to think about my past. Mike's court date had come up, and he had been found guilty – thanks to my mother who testified against him – and sentenced to serve his time at Maxville East General Maximum Security prison.

"The police phoned me about an hour ago Eleanor," Maisa revealed calmly, noticing my tension at the mention of my previous life. "Mike is being charged with first and third degree assault as well as battery – all with intent to cause bodily harm. He's looking at twenty five years in prison. The state thought you should know just to be informed – they told me it took them awhile to get to his case because of the crime rate in the Metropolis."

I didn't say anything, letting the words sizzle through me and regarding Maisa with wide eyes. I knew that this moment was going to come eventually, but I hadn't been looking forward to hearing about a current situation involving my previous life.

"O-okay," I let out a deep breath and tried to focus on one thing at a time – there was a ringing in my ears that didn't clear for a good five minutes until Maisa cleared her throat. Then, there was a large 'woosh' of air that released itself from my mouth as I regarded my psychiatrist desperately. I didn't know what to say – my mother had just been released and was out roaming free in the world, and even though I was still teetering on the fence about seeing her more frequently, I still wanted to go running to her. This whole situation was overwhelming and hearing about Mike after several weeks of keeping that subject dormant threw me off. I knew that someone had most likely told my mother, and in that moment all I could think about was her reaction. Would she have felt guilt? Would she have confessed to any of her own crimes that the police didn't already know about?

"They're not going to charge her, are they?" I questioned nervously. The last thing I needed was my mother to be locked up for good with a permanent stain on her record; I didn't want the correctional system to mess her up anymore than she already was especially after she had just gotten out.

"They would have done that previously," Maisa shook her head in affirmation, still regarding me with cautious eyes. "She served her court ordered rehabilitative time, so for her it's time to reconnect and rest."

Upon establishing that I didn't want speak about my mother any further, we continued on with the session like normal. I was asked about any recent events that had transpired in the last week, how my relations with my friends was going, how I was feeling at school and how me and Warren were doing – everything that could have covered my outside life. Then, she went on to ask if I had made any changes to my alcohol intake since the last time I had seen her, and if the recovery was still going as positive as it was from the last time I saw her. We talked about more coping methods to deal with the urges to drink, as well as replacement strategies and how I could always phone a hotline in the case I felt I needed to talk with someone besides Warren. The conversation moved to my life at home, and how I was adjusting to living alone. This had been a long talk that we'd been having since I had begun to see Maisa, as she was always insisting about the fact that I wasn't living with someone permanently and even with Warren there some nights, I was still alone other nights which meant I was at the risk of hurting myself or engaging in harmful behaviors. Still, I didn't display any symptoms of wanting to do so – nor did I wish to in all sincerity – so Maisa couldn't do more than simply express her concern.

"It seems like things are only going up from here," I assured her as I stepped out of her office at the end of the hour. "I feel safe – and I have someone who I can talk to now. It's not so bad when I'm not alone."

"You were never alone Eleanor," Maisa smiled reassuringly. "No one is."

"I know," I sniffled, pulling my sleeves further down my arms until they only allowed the tips of my fingers to peek out. "But I didn't see that before. Now I feel almost..."

I trailed off, uncertain as to where I was heading with my words and catching Maisa's questioning glance. I could hear Warren's unbelievably loud car engine on the street, and although I wanted so desperately to go and join the one person who mattered to me the most in this world in the vehicle I wanted to finish this conversation first. I was coming to terms with my past and acknowledging how I felt about it currently was important; my progress was incredible and I had a support system around me to allow me the capability to flourish. I was regaining my confidence and molding my place back into society again – I had been a blank face and a worthless place for so long that I had forgotten how much of a difference I could make. I had things to look forward to and people I could help – the opportunities were endless and I realized all of this now. It was no longer about my small house with my abusive stepfather and equally incoherent mother. Now it was about me and what I wanted to do with my life; I had control and a set of abilities that were worth more than healing domestic abuse wounds. I could contribute something and I most definitely mattered, which was something that Warren had helped me realize with his care and affection. Despite the manner in which we had become acquainted, there was an incredible bond between him and I that we both lived off of. To have someone whom I could share my fears and doubts and past experiences with was precious and rare; he knew what I had felt and because of that we were able to become closer. This was not someone who simply empathized with my situation and understood why I felt shitty – this was someone who had been through years of torture himself and had his father locked away as well. And yet, after all of this suffering, he and his mother had thrown themselves into my situation without a second thought to get me out of the hellhole I was living in. I owed a lot to them, but I also had to acknowledge the strength it took for me to make the phone call that changed everything, and the strength it took to continue to grow despite the traumatic experiences behind me. All of it took a gigantic amount of strength, and I had it. I wanted to make Maisa realize how I felt, and let her understand that I had come incredibly far from where I had started. She had only been with me for a small portion of my situation, but I knew that I was going to be able to accomplish whatever was ahead regardless of what challenges she felt were existent. I had traveled a long road so far, and I would never forget where I had come from. But now it was time for me to heal, and I had space to do that. I had the means and the people – I felt safe, at ease and calm again. I felt reinvigorated and confident – I recognized my worth. And the best part of all was that the terrible weight in my stomach had been lifted; whatever feelings had been sitting there for years were gone and had receded back into the pits of hell. My mind had stopped playing games with me and my chest felt clear once more – I could take a deep breath without worrying about the tightness that felt like it was surrounding my heart.

I was free both in my mind and my body.

"Like I can breathe," I admitted, nodding to myself and then catching my psychologist's smile as my eyes shone. "It feels like I can breathe."